


My Fingers in Your Caul

by Amand_r



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, M/M, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:58:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2802089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When I pulled you out of the wolf,” he said quietly, “I licked your back.”</p><p>Peter opened another bottle of beer and handed Roman the empty one.  “I know.”</p><p>Now that he couldn’t tune the music out, it all seemed to make more sense. “It wasn’t enough.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Fingers in Your Caul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abriata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abriata/gifts).



> Confession: I never finished Season 2, so I had to go back and watch the last 2 eps. WHAT THE FUCK. So, this is meandering and introspecty. And yeah. Porn. 
> 
> Warning: Bloodsports. Improper use of lubricant, as in, there isn’t any. Also, you know, things get eaten. Sorry. They're in love forever. And chewy. Also, I am from Pittsburgh. Enjoy my vernacular and geography.

“Eat the unicorn.” (Dr. Galina Zheleznova-Burdukovskaya)

1.

_Well, I guess by the blood stain of your lips_  
_And the wander of your fingertips_  
_I should prove true to my emptiness_  
_And stay here._

“You know what movie I could watch?” Peter said as he reclined his seat. “I could watch the fuck out of _La Femme Nikita_.”

“Besson or that bullshit American one?”

Peter snorted and lifted the beer bottle. _“A-glou a-glou a-glou a-glou.”_

Roman shifted the gear and passed a logging truck, and Peter gave the driver a salute as they passed. The guy gave him the finger. Figured.

The car was dark and cold, and it probably wasn’t the best plan to take it for a long trip. Destiny had told them to take her car, but Roman had rolled his eyes and said something about station wagons that Peter knew was borne more of accepting charity than something classist. There had been a rumor of Spivak in New York City, and Roman had wanted to follow it, though he’d covered it with some sort of excuse like ‘let’s go get laid at that new club’. When he’d called Peter and suggested it, Peter had almost asked if he was done making up excuses to leave Pittsburgh.

But Roman wasn't going to answer that. Or why he would always invite Peter along. Destiny said that they had a linked future, but Peter wasn't so sure.

Maybe there was just a point in two people's relationships where so much fucked up shit happened that only you can understand each other. Your prospects for friendship narrow with every jacked up thing that happens, and finally, you're left with a tiny circle of people who are all as fucked up as you are. Whether or not you actually _like_ them or have anything else in common with them was pretty much moot. You are all you have.

Besides, he had to come. Destiny had kicked him out for a week, now that Andreas had checked into hotel gypsy with his firearm and…his other firearm. They weren't shy, and he could have stayed, but there was something about listening to your cousin get it in every hole that made a man want to cross state lines while violating the open container law in a sports car.

2.

_I claw my eyes, I skin my face_  
_Beg somehow to be replaced_  
_That's how we deal with boys like me_

"I liked the cleaner," Roman told him, switching lanes again. Switching lanes made him feel like he was actually doing something. Sure his hand was on the gearshift, but driving was a far cry from getting his daughter back.

Shifting made him not think about how much he didn't care about that.

He didn't know why he'd bothered to go to New York. If he had to admit it, and he never would, he would have said that he'd just be contriving an excuse for Peter to be in the passenger seat. Though, to be fair, Peter had shown up on his doorstep, not unlike a trampled gypsy, three days before, still stinking of blood and sweat, offering an excuse about Destiny and her visiting booty call. Keeping him near _meant_ contriving an excuse, and well, Spivak was as good an excuse as any. The excuse had been real, really. Some stupid source had maybe, possibly heard about a cult of dragon people and a holy child. Ramblings of a meth head, most like.

They hadn't had any dreams since Miranda, and Roman wasn't holding out hope of any more.

So on the way back from a wasted trip to New York, here they were, drinking IC Light and throwing the empties out the windows so they wouldn't be caught with bottles in the backseat, speeding down the whale path, going ninety in a fifty-five. Peter rolled with the punches, slid along the changes in lanes, the changes in agenda, the movements in attitude that always seemed to take Roman by surprise.

Yeah, Roman thought, he's good with the ladies, but he'd taken another guy across state lines and back without making a move because he couldn't think of the way to say these things.

So.

“When I pulled you out of the wolf,” he said quietly, “I licked your back.”

Peter opened another bottle of beer and handed Roman the empty one. “I know.”

Roman tossed the bottle out of the car window and waited for Peter to yell at him for littering, but nothing came. The radio was still playing that fucking euro pop trash. It was a preset channel in this car, and he couldn’t get rid of it. Not that he’d tried. He didn’t even remember ever playing the radio in the car before now.

All that silence back then, and he never heard the right things.

Now that he couldn’t tune the music out, it all seemed to make more sense.

“It wasn’t enough.”

Peter pulled the cigarettes from the dash and tossed the pack to Roman, but his eyes never left the road.

3.

_I guess by the dim light in your eyes_  
_And that to you all things come as a surprise_  
_I should set the steel trap of your thighs_  
_And dive right in_

The mill was deserted. No surprise, since it'd been closed for decades. Peter hadn't been back since they'd been looking for the creature that had been Christina, but it hadn't changed a bit. Maybe it was a bit dirtier, if that was even possible, a little more rusted out. The huge Bessemer converter lay pregnant and barren on its side. A snatch of decay from a rat corpse in some forgotten corridor, maybe, it was hard to say.

Peter kicked at a bit of rusted pipe on the ground, and something rang out farther away in response. Roman tossed his cigarette away into the tall grass.

"You're going to start a fire," Peter told him.

"Sheeee-it," Roman mumbled, and took off for the rusted furnace house.

Peter had been chewing on what Roman had said ever since he'd said it, from I-76 all the way back on 376. By the time they had gotten to Boulevard of the Allies it was clear they weren’t going to Roman's, but into town, and down by the river. On this side of the Allegheny, there's only one thing right down by the riverbank: dozens of empty mills.

It never occurred to him to ask why. It just seemed right. Besides, Peter figured when he looked at the moon in the sky, it might be for the best.

Now he ran his hands on the rounded lip of the converter, then turned away and stumbled through a mound of loose gravel. He almost fell into the iron pit, a two foot deep channel in the floor half hidden with leaves and random debris.

"I never really thought about what she did," Peter said, knowing that he could say that of any six women, some dead, some horrible, some too good to live in this world.

Roman opened one of the blackened doors and stared into the abyss beyond. "We should make this a club," he said over his shoulder. "Some sort of fucking passé nineties rave bullshit. Club Yinzer."

Peter didn't pay attention to him, at least, not what he was saying. Roman's jacket was still in the car, where he'd tossed it around Bethlehem, when the weather had somehow snapped into something warmer, and his shirt was rumpled and stained with sweat. Or maybe not sweat—maybe it was just the light. It was hard to see in the moonlight, just where Romans cuffs ended and his wrists began.

"You don't need any more fucking money," he told Roman, closing the distance and peering around his frame—it was pointless to try to look over Roman's shoulder; it was a view he'd long ago realized he'd never have. Roman backed up one step, and if he knew Peter was there, he didn't seem to care. Peter's hands made contact with his back, both hands splayed across Roman's shoulder blades, right where the wings might have come from, if he had been something very different.

The cloth felt smooth under his hands, like plastic sheeting, like skin, loose and flimsy. It tore easily, and Peter didn't think about what they'd wear on the way home. The way home was something too far away to imagine; home was an extravagance he hadn't considered for a long time. Neoprene and wood and metal, things that smelled like Lysol and meatballs. Not a lot of raw meat, actually. Roman was hot and full of blood, and Peter wasn't _upir_ , but he understood deep in the part right below his sternum, the part that twisted every time he watched the moon wax impossibly, what that thick stream would taste like filling his mouth. He preferred things that got stuck in his teeth.

Roman bowed his head, and Peter reached his arms into Roman's sleeves, drawing his arms up and out, his fingers travelling down the shoulders, trapezius, bicep, elbow, forearm, and then those wrists, yes, easier to find with hands than eyes. The sleeves bunched at his wrists like eighties legwarmers, and Peter thought about that movie they made here in the Godfrey mill, decades ago, the one that made Jennifer Beale so fucking famous.

He'd expected Roman to fight him. Once, when they'd been in bed with Miranda, Peter had been fucking her, and Roman had been balls-deep in her cunt, and Roman's hands had roamed over to his, and they'd just clasped finger. Miranda had been panting between them, a mare going for a Preakness finish, and Roman's eyes had met his.

They'd never said anything, but Peter had thought about those few seconds enough to make them last a day, a week, even.

Roman's breath was audible, heavy like Miranda's had been, his shirt split in two and trailing over his hands until Peter stripped it off, and then he turned, his eyes meeting Peter's and it was everything he'd remembered. He stood on tiptoe, the balls of his feet grinding in the detritus of the floor, and Roman, who never stooped to meet anything, bent like a winter willow to brush Peter's lips with his.

The kiss wasn't anything major, a little touch of mouths, and then Roman's mouth opened, the willow fell with nary a cry of warning, and Peter felt his hand following roman's wrists to his own shoulders, a collapsing fold of metal, and he left them to slide along Roman's sides, to grab him at the small of his waist. His t-shirt was too much material at the moment, his jeans, soft and greasy from a two week stint, too tight. His shoes felt like horseshoes nailed hot to his feet.

Roman tore the shirt from the collar down, the cotton a little more difficult than the silk, and the ribbing left a brush burn on Peter's neck. Peter twisted his shoulder away from the pain, and Roman lunged forward, his mouth open impossibly wide, latching on t Peter's neck, his teeth digging into the flesh there. It wasn't like the movies, really, all romance and tiny pinpricks-- _upir_ didn't have special teeth for biting, not like Peter had. Half-moons bit through the skin like the release of a sausage casing, and Peter was aware of his fingernails itching, like they did before the change. He hadn't changed out of cycle since they'd been attacked by the Children of God, and he didn't plan on doing it again, not since he'd been saved once.

Something about having a bleeding open wound, an aching cock, made the body feel the heartbeat so much more acutely. The pain clustered in his throat and turned from a feel to lightness. Roman's hair was so pale and bright at that moment, Peter tried to grab it, but Roman pulled away from his neck with a little tear. He could see the jaws working, chewing, that hyoid bone throttling him to atoms in Roman's mouth.

He cured his fingers into hooks and used the wolf hidden there to dig into the flesh under his hands. Roman grunted and stiffened into him, and when his cock pressed into Peter, hard and clothed in his billion dollar trousers, Peter thrust forward. He broke the skin and found the thin layer of fat, the strange slickness of blood coursing down his hands, and then very tough sheath that ran over muscle. He thought of his mother pulling that skin from a pair of chicken breasts and stopped.

Roman grabbed at his jeans, the belt and yanked. The buckle flew off into the distance, hit something alive, and ratcheted down into a hole. Peter looked up for one moment, through the broken ceiling, and saw the moon there, almost there. Accusing.

"I—"

4.

_But despite what you've been told_  
_I once had a soul_  
_Left somewhere behind_  
_A former friend of mine_

“Lift up your arms,” Roman rasped, his fingers slicking along Peter's front. He had hair on his chest, and it was distracting—women were free of hair there, actually, and he hadn't thought much of it when he'd decided that he was going to fuck Peter from the back, but now he was changing his mind. It was a lot of hair, dark and curling and _not_ , and he wanted to rub his face in it.

Peter filled his mouth, still slicking every crevice in between his teeth. It wasn't like eating leeches, like the soldier he'd killed at his house, like that fucking pimp, like any of the whores he'd dispatched in the weeks following Nadia's abduction. Tasting blood wasn't like tasting wine or food—it hit the mouth first, and it always tasted like everything else—blood was blood, whether it came from a pig or a rat or a fucked up crack head in a dark alley. It was what happened after, when the first atom, the first molecule, seeped into a blood vessel, was absorbed through a mucus membrane and hit his own blood, that it exploded. Sometimes it was like a lemon in milk, sometimes like pepper grain on water.

Peter was baking soda and vinegar, potassium and water—the moment his blood hit Roman's own the result was throttling, pummeling. He almost lost control and came in his trousers.

Peter lifted his arms and ducked his head, his hair falling into his face. All that hair, Roman thought, smelling like grease and beer and that fucking oil he used to slick himself down. He wanted that hair on his tongue, He wanted it against his cheek, and he pushed Peter into the pipes behind them, letting him flop back onto the filthy rust-laden crap that his father's men probably used to make bridges or some other bullshit like that.

Peter's arms flopped above is head, his neck arched back, covered with blood and still seeping. Roman hadn't hit anything too necessary, and it wouldn't kill him, but Roman had wanted it to hurt. His back was a ruin, the muscles just above his waist screaming every time he twisted a bit to undo his clothes and inch them down his legs. Peter was proving to be snakelike, half lying on the pipes , his arms up ballet-style, maybe, his legs writing just enough that his jeans slowly slid down them, finally puddling at his feet, trapped by his boots.

Roman reached behind him and felt the deep holes Peter's fingers had made, pressing the edges of ones that the blood gushed anew into his hand, a puddle in his palm. When he raised it to Peter's neck, leaning over his naked body to scrape clotting blood from his skin, Peter grunted and moved his legs aside.

It was easy to grab his cock then and then bend down to get a firm grip on Peter's jeans, pulling his legs up into the air. Peter was so short, he could have upended him completely and held him upside down with one hand.

He spread Peter wide, his hand stabbing in to find his hole, slick fingers goring inside, trying to mirror the marks on his back, and Peter sucked in his breath, some huge echoing shriek, like a whooping cough. Roman pulled the jeans up and rose through the bend of peter's legs, the closed infinite circle of thigh, calf, foot and material.

"Fuck, man," Peter said, his hands gripping the pipe behind him, a smaller one that the mill workers had probably put there just for this purpose, so that in this mystic moment, right now, Peter would have something to grab when Roman licked his lips and slathered his and Peter's blood on his cock just before slamming into his ass. Peter arched his back and the loose pipes rolled under him. He might have said something like "Fuck" again, but it was drowned out by the groan of metal.

Peter was tighter than he had thought he would be, though to be honest, roman hadn't fucked many girls in the ass before, and pussy was nothing like this anyway. Anyone could tell you that, even they hadn't one it themselves. He didn't need to thrust to get off, really, just push and grind against him, yank the body this way and this like pulling on reins so that peter want this way and that, his sphincter relaxed and then tightened around him, rectal pompoir, maybe.

A bird left the rafters in a loud flutter of wings and feathers, and Roman couldn't track it with his eyes. The open ceiling yawned, jagged metal teeth pasted with the movement of clouds over the stars. Roman thought about the last time he's tried to watch something in flight, and his back stung all over again. He pulled out of Peter and held it for a moment, one hand reaching out and grabbing a fistful of chest hair. Peter's hands released from the railing and he sat up a bit, as if just that tug had changed the gravity of his body.

Roman buried himself in Peter again, pulling his closer by his hair, and Peter's boots pressed into his back, squeezing the gore marks like a pressure bandage gone horribly wrong when he moved again, the material tore from the clots there and reopened everything. It was exquisite.

Peter's cock lay on his stomach, long and curved, some sort of vargyr scimitar that Roman couldn't bring himself to touch. But later, many laters, yes, he would bite into that and drink from there as well. And Peter would let him. And he would let Peter scrape his hands over every secret place, over every tender morsel, let him open him like a filleted trout, pour his tongue into the meat and blood like coating him in molten steel.

And that would be a good start, he figured.

"I like your hair," he said finally, and he felt the gentle shake of Peter's laugh more than he heard it. But the sound was probably there even if it was too quiet for his ears.

 

5.

_And I hate to sound so true_  
_But I mean nothing to you_  
_So, if the street lights they shine bright_  
_I'll be home tonight_

It wouldn't be a full moon for three more days. Peter rubbed his shirt against the scabbing ruin of his neck and leaned against the car. The metal was cool against his skin, and the throbbing in his ass was strong and lingering, a good hurt, as Lynda might have said once, though what she would have thought of this night he didn't want to ponder.

"I should have this place razed," Roman said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Build a fucking Gap and a Starbucks."

Peter watching him reach into the car and pull out his jacket, shrugging it on over his ravaged back and bloody front. He'd wear Peter's blood home, and then maybe he'd take a bath, ducking his head down under the water to drink the diluted stuff. It was kind of endearing, and not a little sick.

"I want a beer," he said to the hulking mill.

Roman sat on the car hood, his legs splayed out. Peter could feel the gentle rock of the car as it dipped with the weight. "Aiight." He pressed the starter on his fob and the thing rumbled to lift under them both, some rebellious animal that resented them. The stereo resumed, and maybe it had shifted stations, because Romans' crap dubstep was gone, and Peter almost knew the song. Lynda had liked this song, used to sing it after a few shots of schnapps, usually after she had had a good cry about his dad.

He wondered if she could still hear this in Bucharest. If she was in Bucharest.

_You smile, you smile, and then the spell is cast_

Peter took in a deep breath of air: goldenrod and rust and old greasy metallic oil, like an abandoned garage. Roman tossed his cigarette across the lot into a stagnant puddle, and even from here the hiss was barely drowned out by the locusts.

_And here we are in heaven_

There was a star up in the sky, bright and moving. It was probably a plane, but Peter wasn’t sure the stars were as immobile as science taught anymore. Lots of things were loose and mobile these days. Behind the mill the city blazed, lighting up the while broken skyline of furnaces and boilers long dead.

_For you are mine, at--_

Roman leaned into the car, and yanked out the keys.

“Last,” Peter whispered softly.

END

**Author's Note:**

> MINI SOUNDTRACK:
> 
> Chapter verse beginnings are the Roman/Peter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eVef-ub44k  
> Omg and this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XpGA0gu6e0s  
> Omg and this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5dxnr9fV-Ts  
> OMG AND THIS ONE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x3xxJGepxf8  
> Omg and this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bA1PAkKD3Q4  
> Omg yasss this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F90Cw4l-8NY  
> OMG THIS IS THE LAST ONE. I SWEAR: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p62rfWxs6a8  
> NO WAIT I LIED: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_O4P06f9VsI


End file.
